


A Cunning Plan

by Lady of Prompts (Aethelflaed)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Torture, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bad Angel Michael (Good Omens), ButterOmens, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Dark Comedy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Hastur Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, POV Antagonist, POV Beelzebub (Good Omens), POV Gabriel (Good Omens), POV Hastur (Good Omens), POV Michael (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Psychological Torture, Queen (Band) Lyrics, She/Her Pronouns for Michael (Good Omens), Threats of Violence, Ze/Zir Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23471974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Lady%20of%20Prompts
Summary: Two angels and two demons decide to get their revenge on the traitors. But holding Aziraphale captive turns out to be harder than expected. Can they break through his defenses before Crowley mounts a successful rescue?--
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 250





	A Cunning Plan

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Good/Bad Idea](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/578200) by Kaz3313. 



> Another ButterOmens fic! This is an event where content creators of all media can build off each other's submissions. Full rules can be found [here.](https://n0nb1narydemon.tumblr.com/post/611808756218707968)
> 
> This ButterOmens fic is a (massive!) expansion on [kaz3313's](https://kaz3313.tumblr.com/) fic ["A Good/Bad Idea."](https://kaz3313.tumblr.com/post/614037922262499328/butter-omens-im-allowing-any-kind-of-additions) Anyone is invited to pick up the chain from here, or interpret the work in fan art, or go back and start again!
> 
> Thanks as always to the two originators of ButterOmens: [n0nb1narydemon](https://n0nb1narydemon.tumblr.com/) and [acuteangleaziraphale.](https://acuteangleaziraphale.tumblr.com/)  
> \--  
> Notes:
> 
> This is a primarily-villain POV story, following the starter fic by Kaz3313, in which Beelzebub and Hastur decide that trying to get revenge on Crowley is too dangerous, but grabbing his angel friend should be easier...
> 
> Those familiar with my Hell stories will know this can get intense. CW for threats of violence (very little actual violence on screen), psychological abuse, and plenty of evidence that things could go VERY bad.

Michael glared at the telephone on her desk – an older model, with cords and physical buttons, instead of the sleek device she preferred. It almost never did anything anymore, but now it was giving off a horrific, shrill _rrrriiiiing_ over and over. The blinking red light – not quite coordinated to the noise – told her it was an external call, to the general line.

Good. Someone else could answer that.

_Rrrrriiiiing._

Except she had work to do and she couldn’t concentrate around that infernal –

_Rrrrriiiiing._

After more than a minute of this abject torture, Michael gave in and snatched up the handset. “Hello?” she demanded, making no attempt to hide her irritation.

Her lip curled in disgust when she heard the voice on the other end of the line. She should have known. “No, I am _not_ Gabriel’s… _secretary,_ as you put it. Why would he give his personal line to _you?”_

Beelzebub’s grating voice seemed slightly less bored than usual. If this kept up, ze may even make it all the way to _annoyed._

“Well, I believe he also said that _we_ would be in touch. That means, don’t call us, we’ll –”

A scowl. “No, I will not transfer you.”

She stood up, very nearly losing her composure. _“Or_ take a message. I told you, I’m not his secretary. You’ll get your paperwork back in a week. If you want to arrange a meeting then –”

Michael reluctantly listened to the demon’s reply. “Well. You had your chance for revenge, and as I recall, it didn’t work out, did it?” A pause. “No, I suppose things _didn’t_ go well on our end, either. Not that that’s any concern of yours.”

Michael drummed her fingers on the desk, staring at the pile of paperwork. Everything since the failed Apocalypse had been _paperwork_ and _committee meetings,_ one scramble after another to create new plans for a world that stubbornly refused to _end._

This wasn’t what she was designed for. She was built to lead the angels in a glorious war that should be going on _right now._ If it weren’t for those traitors…

“Fine. I’m listening. What is your plan?”

\--

Two angels and two demons sat around the wrought-iron café table, awning shading them from the early-autumn heat, eyes watching the bookshop on the corner.

The pale one, Hastur, had a stench that had cleared out most of the outdoor seating area immediately, and Beelzebub’s swarm of flies had taken care of the rest. The flies coated every surface, every chair, the windows, the ground, and the little plate of pastries they’d brought as camouflage. Already the _croissants_ were starting to rot.

Gabriel and Michael sat across from the demons, each with a cup full of bitter _coffee._ Neither would actually stoop so low as to _drink_ a debase, earthly liquid. In fact, Michael had barely managed to convince Gabriel to sit near the cup, and he kept eyeing it as if afraid it would move closer of its own accord, spill all over his latest suit.

Michael pretended to take a sip, as the vile liquid tried to burn her fingers through the thin paper cup. It was annoying, so she immediately dissipated the heat. Somehow, it smelt even worse cold.

Beelzebub had some enormous, frothy monstrosity, to which ze was adding packet after packet of creamer, leaving the empty containers strewn about for zir flies to explore.

Only Hastur seemed to be enjoying his, devouring the cup one mouthful of shredded paper at a time.

“There,” Michael nodded down the street, the opposite direction from the bookshop.

Tall, clad all in black, dark red hair – the demon Crowley – and the round, pale shape of Aziraphale, in that absurd outfit he always wore, bowtie and all. The disgraceful angel was eating some form of confection while the demon talked at length, long arm waving in every direction.

Between them, their hands were clasped, fingers tangled together. It made Michael’s skin crawl just to look at it, and she slid her chair a little farther from the two revolting creatures at her table.

“This is what they do all day?” Gabriel demanded, incredulous.

“As far as we can tell,” she confirmed. “Go for walks. Eat foods. Sit in the bookshop. _Touch each other.”_ Incomprehensible. Thousands of years of subtle defiance – so subtle even Michael herself nearly missed it – only to openly rebel against Heaven for a life of…nothing.

“Szoundsz miszerable,” Beelzebub muttered, echoing Michael’s thoughts, though the Prince of Hell had barely glanced at the two traitors. Instead, ze reached for the saltshaker, trying to add a pinch to the awful concoction. At the first shake, the cap came off, dumping several ounces of salt into Beelzebub’s beverage. “Great. Now it’sz ruined. Who doesz that?”

“Crowley,” growled Hastur, grinding his teeth so hard Michael thought they might crack. “He’s always loosening the tops in the Hell canteen. Thinks its…” he spat. _“Funny.”_

Michael and Gabriel shared a grimace. Hell was full of evil and cruelty, but what neither of them could stand was the _unprofessionalism._ “Regardless,” Michael tried to continue her report, “our experts have assured me they are indulging in several major sins. Sloth. Gluttony.” As they watched, Crowley paused, laughing. His thumb brushed crumbs away from the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “Lust.”

All four beings at the table shuddered this time, and four chairs shrieked as they moved apart, grating across the concrete floor. Despite being only a few meters away, the traitors didn’t notice – they would see and hear nothing of their observers, unless one of Beelzebub’s flies broke the barrier Michael had meticulously set up.

“Diszguszting,” Beelzebub declared as Aziraphale caught Crowley’s thumb and pressed it briefly to his lips. Several dozen flies buzzed agreement.

“When do we grab him?” demanded Hastur, ripping another bite out of his cup.

“That’s the tough part,” Gabriel said. “We have to wait until he’s alone. There can be no chance the demon is anywhere in the area.”

“Really?” The carefully maintained boredom in Beelzebub’s tone carried a note of mockery. “Are two Archangelsz afraid of one demon?”

“I don’t know, is the Prince of Hell afraid of him?” snapped Gabriel.

“Crowley is not the concern here,” Michael interrupted, glaring at both parties. She could _not_ work like this, not if Gabriel was going to stoop to their level. “It’s Aziraphale.”

Hastur made a noise like an explosion in a swamp. “That cringing little nothing? Could take him apart with my bare hands.”

“No doubt you could, under normal circumstances.” Michael tried not to look at the hands in question – particularly the filthy, discolored nails. “But Aziraphale is a Guardian. He has extraordinary strength when acting in defense of one of his charges, and for some unfathomable reason he counts Crowley among them.” She glanced at the two demons sharing her table, neither of whom was paying enough attention for her liking. “Let me make this absolutely clear. He cannot access that strength in self-defense. That isn’t how he was designed. But if he thinks for one second that Crowley, or anyone else, is in danger – you will lose control of this.”

“Fine,” growled Hastur, who clearly lacked any patience, along with intelligence, grace, and good sense. “We grab the angel at night, when Crowley leaves.”

Michael pressed her lips together.

The look of horror slowly grew across Gabriel’s features. _“Does_ the demon leave at night?”

“About half the time,” she admitted.

Another shriek of four chairs shifting apart.

\--

Four nights later, Hastur watched the bookshop through the van window. Michael had manifested it, after spending five minutes mocking Hastur’s own attempt. He’d thought his imitation of a human automobile was good enough for the job, but Captain Fancy Wings wanted something _convincing_ and _realistic_ and _with a functioning air conditioner._ Little cardboard trees that he wasn’t allowed to eat sat on every surface, and Michael was spritzing the air with something that smelled foul and flowery.

“Stop that or I’ll rip your arm off,” snapped Hastur, as the spritz came too close to his eyes – and nose – again. The seven demons in the back grunted agreement.

Michael just raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to try.”

Hastur turned back to the shop. Crowley had finally left, and now the little cream-colored puffball was sitting in a chair with his eyes closed, sipping on a glass of something Michael had repeatedly insisted was _not_ blood, though it was certainly red.

“Look. He’s alone. I say we go in now,” Hastur growled. This plan was taking far too long. If _he’d_ been in charge, the angel’s hacked-off arm would be growing cold on Crowley’s doorstep by now.

“Not. Yet.” Michael’s voice was tense. “Believe me, I’m not going to keep you all a second longer than –”

They didn’t hear the telephone ring, but Hastur saw the angel jump to his feet and hurry over, sappy smile growing all over his face. “Ugh. They’ve been _talking_ all day. What the Heaven _else_ do they have to say to each other?”

The call went on for eternity, every expression on the angel’s face even more vomit-inducing than the last. Finally, he hung up and leaned back in his chair again.

 _“Now_ can we –”

“Our intel says after their conversation, Crowley always goes to sleep. So, yes, it should be safe to –”

Hastur kicked open the van door, emerging from the blessed potpourri cloud that Michael held them captive in. “Right, team, hit him hard and grab him quick. Let’s go.”

\--

It wasn’t exactly the tactical strike Michael wanted, but it would do.

The doors to the shop had been magically reinforced, but they were no match for eight demons, one of them a Duke of Hell. In seconds, they swarmed through the shards of glass and red-painted wood.

She watched from the van as Aziraphale leapt to his feet. His fury at the intruder quickly shifted to horror when he saw what he truly faced, and he stumbled backwards. Michael smiled. “Not so brave now, are we, traitor?”

The first demon to reach him got a nasty knock in the teeth. Michael had _warned_ them Aziraphale knew how to fight. Even without his Guardian strength, he was easily a match for any demon, possibly even _two_ demons together.

But as he dashed to the phone, four jumped on him, dragging him down in a flurry of feathers, the traitor panicking so hard his wings manifested. Disgraceful.

When the demons finally had him immobile, Hastur stepped over and slammed a bar of metal into the back of Aziraphale’s head. Michael smiled again, imagining the _crack_ it would make. Pity she couldn’t deliver it herself.

After a pause, she saw Hastur’s arm rise and fall again. Then a third time.

Really. _That_ was just brutish overkill.

At last, Hastur and his smelly horde emerged from the shop, six of the demons carrying Aziraphale between them. That shouldn’t have been necessary. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, annoyed at the delay.

When the back door opened and the demons began wrestling the angel’s body inside, she snapped, “It took you long –” And fell silent as she saw Aziraphale’s eyes, wide open and alert.

“Michael.” With a flutter of white wings, he wrenched himself free of his captors, settling against the far wall of the van, trying to look like he was there by choice. “I wondered who the brains behind this would be. Just when I thought you couldn’t disappoint me any further.”

She glared at Hastur, who moved to sit beside Aziraphale. “You incompetent – I told you to make sure he was unconscious!”

“Won’t go down.” He jerked Aziraphale’s head forward by the hair, studying the back of his skull.

“What do you mean – you just didn’t do it right!”

“Listen, wanker, I know how to knock someone out. Know how to do a lot worse if I want. Something’s not right here.”

“Yes, I’m obviously too powerful for you,” Aziraphale said, but Michael could hear the tremble behind the false bravado now. “If you let me go, I – I won’t try to take revenge.”

Hastur hit him across the face so hard, the impact echoed off the metal walls of the van. And pulled away his hand with a shout, clutching his fingers to his chest. “How are you doing that?” Aziraphale barely even looked dazed, but the worry was blossoming into full-blown fear.

“We’re going,” Michael snapped. “Sit on him if you have to, we’ll figure it out once we get there.”

\--

Hell had never captured an angel alive before. Beelzebub was nearly _excited_ at the possibilities.

But ze was also aware it could go wrong, like at Crowley’s trial – instead of hundreds of demons witnessing the destruction of a traitor, they saw him boldly defy zir authority and shrug off gallons of Holy Water as if it were nothing. The damage control from that incident would _never_ be over. Beelzebub couldn’t afford a repeat.

The cell ze prepared was deep in the twisted corridors of Hell; it had been designed to hold a Hellhound, so it should be enough to keep the angel contained. The chains that would bind him were forged from celestial orichalcum and stygian iron. Ze had added some fancy cameras, provided by Heaven, so the torture could be broadcast to all of Hell, but open plaza outside was to be kept clear.

“I like this,” Gabriel said, inspecting the cell. “Very thorough. Very _dark._ And the smell, that’s a good touch.”

“We don’t need your approval,” Beelzebub reminded him. “We know how to do our jobsz here.”

Gabriel grabbed one of the chains and pulled it with his whole weight. “But you’ve never had an angel before, have you? There’s a lot to consider. After all, angels and demons have very little in common –”

“The main differencze isz that angelsz are much more arrogant.”

The Arch-wanker finally turned to face Beelzebub, storming over to tower over zir, to try and intimidate zir. Pathetic, really.

“May I remind you that I’m here because _you_ asked _me_ for assistance.”

“Which you already provided. You’re now here asz a courteszy, nothing more.”

“A courtesy?” Gabriel demanded.

“Yesz.” Apparently, he thought puffing himself up and pulling a face would somehow impress someone who spent zir life ordering _literal demons_ to stop chewing on each other for five minutes and do some blessed paperwork. “He isz _our_ captive. We deczide what happens to him now. But asz he isz _your_ traitor, and asz a szign of our goodwill, you can have a turn torturing him, when we are finished.”

“Listen here,” Gabriel pointed a finger. Wow. A finger. Beelzebub had never seen one of _those_ before. “That little shithead has been a pain in my side for _thousands_ of years, and if you think I’m just going to sit back and _watch_ while your side takes him apart –”

“If you szat back and watched, you might actually learn szomething.” Beelzebub frowned. “But that would probably ruin your image.”

“Let me tell you something about…” But it seemed Beelzebub would go the rest of eternity without whatever wisdom Gabriel had been about to shit out, because they were interrupted by his flashy mobile phone ringing. He held up his finger and wandered off. “Michael! How’s the extraction going?”

Turning back to more important matters, Beelzebub made sure there were sufficient implements of torture in the cell. The one remaining issue was how to choose one of Hell’s many skilled torturers to work on the angel; despite Hastur’s insistence, he was clearly not the best choice. The camera set-ups were reminding Beelzebub of that _reality TV_ thing Crowley used to write about in detail, and that was giving zir some interesting ideas for a competition…

“What do you mean _there’s a problem?”_ Gabriel’s voice demanded, and Beelzebub sighed. Something else for zir to sort out, it seemed.

\--

It was the second time Aziraphale had been led into Hell in chains, though the others didn’t know that.

It was harder this time. Not just because the manacles dragged at his wrists and ankles, each one connected to a different demon marching along beside him; Hastur led the way, pulling the chain for the collar around his neck. Two more demons held his wings in grimy claws.

It was humiliating, but that wasn’t all of it. Aziraphale found it had been _much easier_ to be brave when everyone thought he was Crowley.

The routes they traveled were as wide as a city street, but the crowds pressed in on either side, reaching for him – he sometimes felt their hands brush his face, his wings, clutch at his shirt as he passed – and the shouting. Oh, the shouting.

_I hope you brought enough angel for everyone._

_Hey, angel, not so high-and-mighty now, are we?_

_You better hope they don’t leave you alone, angel, or I’m going to break into your cell and –_

_Hey, angel, I can’t wait to get my hands on your wings and –_

_What’s the matter, angel? Us demons not good enough for you?_

_Hey, angel –_

_Hey, angel –_

_Angel –_

Empty threats, but no less terrifying for it. He tried to raise his hands to cover his ears, but the demons holding his chains jerked them back down.

It was fairly obvious which cell was meant to be Aziraphale’s: the one with two Archangels waiting outside it. He didn’t know how Michael had gotten there first. Probably took a more private route; the demons wanted to parade their captive in front of all of Hell, but they were still ashamed of their allies.

He tossed his head and tried to keep his voice even. “Gabriel. I’d say it’s good to see you again, but I promised Crowley I wouldn’t lie so much anymore.”

“Aziraphale. What the hell have you been up to?”

“Is that…supposed to be funny?” He honestly could never tell with Gabriel.

Any trace of good humor vanished from the Archangel’s face, and Aziraphale felt a familiar fear tear through him. _He can’t hurt you, he can’t hurt you…_

“Take him inside,” Gabriel ordered. “String him up.”

“You don’t give the commandsz around here,” Beelzebub said, and there was a distinct note of anger behind the blandness.

“I thought you were supposed to be the expert,” Gabriel snapped. “We don’t argue in front of the prisoner. Take him in. Now.”

\--

“What do you mean, he can’t be harmed?” Beelzebub demanded, rubbing zir forehead in annoyance.

“I mean, I bit him, hit him, scratched him – everything I could think of, but he barely felt anything.” Hastur looked offended, as if this was a professional insult.

 _“Barely_ felt anything?” Gabriel asked, trying to make sense of what passed for a report in Hell. “What did he feel?”

“Sometimes he flinched,” Hastur shrugged.

“Yes, but when did he –” Gabriel sighed. “Never mind. Michael?”

She nodded and stepped towards the cell.

“Sztop.” Beelzebub blocked her. “I told you, he isz our priszoner, and we get first –”

“Nobody is getting first _anything_ until we know what’s going on,” Gabriel pointed out. “And unlike your…fine associate,” he gestured to Hastur politely, “Michael actually knows how to be systematic. Sit back and watch, you might learn something.”

Beelzebub’s face twisted, but ze stepped aside and let Michael go to work.

“Ah, Michael. Welcome to my new abode,” Aziraphale started, full of false bravery. Gabriel knew it was false. He’d known Aziraphale practically since the moment of the Principality’s creation. Soft and weak and anxious about absolutely everything. Right now he was standing in a dark, damp, filthy cell, arms and wings chained so they couldn’t even be lowered comfortably. He should be pissing himself already. But instead, he smiled that shaky, watery smile. “I’m sure they sent you to –”

Michael slapped him across the face, then shook her hand.

Aziraphale shrugged. “I’m afraid you’ll find that –”

Michael punched him in the jaw. His head snapped back, then lowered again to look at her.

“You know, it’s rude to interrupt.”

Over the next ten minutes, Michael tried everything, including half the torture implements Beelzebub had prepared. Knives scraped across his skin without any affect; hammers slammed into his joints with no more reaction than “Ooh, that smarts a little.” Pulling his hair brought barely a grunt of pain. Plucking his feathers seemed promising at first, but after the first minute, he stopped noticing.

They could find nothing that actually _hurt_ Aziraphale.

It was while Michael was trying, unsuccessfully, to break a finger that Gabriel realized what was going on. He marched into the cell, grabbing the prisoner by the metal collar. “You _didn’t.”_

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Aizraphale whispered, tongue poking out to wet his lips.

Shifting the collar aside, Gabriel ripped off the bowtie, throwing it on the ground, then tore open the front of Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Stop – _Stop it!”_ Finally, the high-pitched fear Gabriel had been waiting for, but he ignored it. Pulling back the shirt, he found what he expected to see: a complex, serpentine sigil carved into the skin over Aziraphale’s heart.

“You let him mark you. You let a goddamn demon _mark_ you. Of all the disgusting, depraved acts –”

“Really,” Aziraphale cut in, sounding close to tears. “That’s no way to speak about my husband.”

\--

“Huszband?” Beelzebub found that somehow _more_ disgusting than the thoughts of what the two traitors had been _physically_ doing.

“That’s not important,” Gabriel said, though he clearly found it just as disturbing. “That mark is protecting him from any harm. As long as it’s there, we can’t touch him.”

“Crowley,” growled Hastur, clenching his fist so that the jagged nails cut deep into his own flesh. “Thinks he’s so bloody clever, pulling this shit –”

Fascinating as his latest temper tantrum wasn’t, it was time to focus on the problem. “If the angel isz marked, it can only be eraszed with the blood of the demon. Which brings us back to the original problem.” They didn’t dare try to capture Crowley. Not without knowing what powers he might have.

“I got a good look at it,” Gabriel said, shaking his head. “It’s a demonic sigil, but an angelic mark.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, my good Prince of Hell, that it’s not powered by blood, it’s powered by faith.”

“Yeah? So?” Hastur got lost in conversations that didn’t feature disembowelments every few minutes.

Michael sighed. “There are two ways to break an angelic mark. Either he denounces his faith, or he loses it.” She frowned at her superior. “It might not be that easy. He believes he’s _married_ to the creature. He won’t just denounce Crowley because you ask him to.”

Impossibly, Gabriel’s face grew even more smug. “Leave that to me. I know that idiot’s psyche inside and out. I’ll have him cursing the demon’s name by morning.”

Beelzebub scowled at the locked cell door. When they’d shut it, the angel had been smiling – he even _waved_ at them. “I don’t szee how.”

“Trust me. Maybe _you_ can't hear it in his voice, but I can. He’s practically broken already. I’m going to need everything you’ve got on Crowley so I can sell this. Michael, if he’s marked, we’re going to need security a lot sooner than planned.”

“On it.” She walked away, tapping her phone. Then stopped and turned back. “Or I would be, if there was any signal down here. I need your Wi-Fi password.”

“We don’t just give that out to any angel who asks,” Hastur snarled.

“Hey,” Gabriel clapped his hands. “There’s no time for that. We’re going to be one big, happy family working together to break that angel, hmm?”

Beelzebub seriously considered just letting Aziraphale go and torturing Gabriel instead. It seemed like a lot less trouble at this point.

“Fine. Hasztur, go talk to Dagon. Get all filesz on Crowley, whatever she hasz... Michael, the code isz one-hundred-eighty-four zerosz followed by a one. Gabriel,” Beelzebub sighed. “Tell me how thisz isz going to work.”

“Oh,” the Archangel rubbed his hands together. “You’re going to like this one.”

\--

Gabriel walked back into the cell, easy smile across his face. He placed a bright lamp beside him and settled into the folding chair Hell had provided. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it was important he look at ease.

The light made Aziraphale flinch, smile turning into a grimace. Good. Already used to the dark.

“Well, Aziraphale, looks like I have good news and bad news.”

“You’ve found you can’t torture me, so you’re letting me go?”

Beelzebub melted into the shadows behind Aziraphale, pulling on one chain, then another. “We can’t hurt you, but we can sztill make you _very_ uncomfortable.” Aziraphale’s arms jerked upwards, until he had to stand on his toes.

Gabriel shook his head sympathetically. “Demons,” he shrugged. “They don’t really think _big picture._ But you know all about that.” Another jerk of the chains pulled down his wings as far as they would go.

Aziraphale grunted, trying to find a way to balance himself. “Crowley does. He always has a plan.”

“Yes, I’m sure he does,” Gabriel waved dismissively. “In fact, we’re waiting for him to show up. I assume that’s what his mark does, alerts him when you need help. Angelic marks are like that,” he added for Beelzebub’s benefit. “One is the protected, the other the protector.” The profane mark on Azirapahle’s chest was bright red against pale skin.

“Fasczinating,” the Prince of Hell muttered.

“He knew the moment you took me,” Aziraphale said, voice a little tighter. “He’ll be here within the hour –”

“Actually,” Gabriel glanced at his watch, “it’s been over two hours already.” It was almost impossible not to smile at the flicker of worry that crossed Aziraphale’s face at that lie. “No matter. When he finally shows up, we’ll bargain for your release.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing much, really. Just certain assurances you’ll stay out of our way.”

“We’ve been staying out of your way!” He tried to take a step forward, then gasped and pulled back. Looks like Beelzebub’s theory was right – they couldn’t hurt Aziraphale, but he could still hurt himself, pulling against his chains. Interesting. “Look,” the angel tried again in a calmer tone. “All we want is to be left alone –”

“Then there’s no reason for this to be difficult. As soon as he –”

Gabriel’s phone rang, exactly on time. He smiled as he stood, pulling it out. “That’ll be Uriel’s team. Don’t worry, not much longer now.” Hurrying out of the cell, he pretended to take the call.

Beelzebub followed a moment later, scooping up the lamp, and Aziraphale’s tie from where it had fallen. “In casze we need proof that we have you. Enjoy the dark.” The cell door shut with a satisfying slam.

Gabriel waited just long enough for the dark and silence to press in on the prisoner. Then he shouted as loud as he could, _“What do you mean he left?”_

\--

Exactly seventy-eight minutes after they’d dragged the traitor through the lobby to Hell, his demonic partner arrived. Michael had moved as quickly as she could, pulling eight of her best angels to guard the escalators, armed with every Holy weapon she could think of.

The demon Crowley burst through the lobby door with some sort of elaborate pump-action water pistol in his hands, a dark expression behind his glasses. When he saw the flaming blades, he slowed his march, lowering the plastic gun slightly.

“I’m afraid Holy Water isn’t going to work on us,” Michael smiled sweetly. “Did you have another plan?”

“Working on it,” Crowley grunted, eyeing the swords. She was relieved at that; she hadn’t been completely certain a demon immune to Holy Water would still fear heavenly weapons. “Why don’t you save us all some trouble and let him go? You can’t –”

“Can’t hurt him? You honestly believe that little mark is going to stop us?”

His lips twisted at that. So much for the infamous flash bastard. Crowley lowered his toy weapon to the ground and took a few steps closer, arms wide. “What do you want? Hmm? You want to negotiate? Give me your terms, I’m here.”

“We don’t negotiate with demons,” Michael started.

“No, you just raid bookshops with them.” Her phalanx took a step forward, and he jumped back. “Right, fine, touchy subject. I get it. Don’t want to be judged for the company you keep. Though, I’m pretty sure I smelled Hastur’s distinctive odor, and I _am_ judging you.”

Even behind the glasses, Michael could see the way his eyes darted. He was testing her. Trying to find a weakness in their defenses. More clever than she’d expected.

“Just go home, Crowley,” she said. “We’ll be in touch.”

_“When?”_

“When we’re satisfied with the number of pieces he’s in, you can come and collect them.”

It really didn’t take that much to crack his composure. Michael almost expected him to charge their swords that second. “You can’t – he’s safe –”

“Because he _trusts_ you? Let’s see how he’s doing right now.” Michael held up her phone, turning on the feed from Aziraphale’s cell. It wasn’t live, of course. Too risky. Gabriel had agreed to send her useful clips as the interrogation proceeded.

The first one played out, and Crowley made a wonderful noise of pain when he saw how the angel was chained up and collared, shirt torn open, Gabriel and Beelzebub confronting him in the harsh lamplight.

“Where isz thisz _Alpha Czentauri?”_ demanded Beelzebub.

Aziraphale’s eyes darted from one to the other. “It’s…it’s just a place. Crowley mentions it sometimes.”

“And is that part of his rescue plan? Uriel says that’s where he’s heading. Took off in his car with,” Gabriel glanced at a list on his phone, “thirty-seven potted plants, a hundred and five discs of music, and all the wine from your shop. Not really sure what he’s planning to do with all that.”

“You’re…how could you…” The angel pulled his arms against the chains. “He wouldn’t go…”

Crowley turned astonishingly pale. Michael had been very impressed with the thoroughness of Dagon’s records, including a little snippet of conversation from the days after the failed Apocalypse, when the two traitors had made certain plans. _Case of emergency,_ Crowley had said. _If we ever have to run, we need to know exactly what we’re taking._

Michael slid the phone back into her pocket. “How long do you think his protection is going to last, once he thinks you’ve betrayed him?”

Crowley clenched his fists, but didn’t move closer. Instead, he threw back his head and howled: “Aziraphale! Can you hear me? I’m here! _Aziraphale!”_

Michael actually laughed. “That won’t work. He’s –”

“Hellhound pits? Thought I recognized that cell. Fine, he might not be able to hear me, but he still knows I wouldn’t leave him.” He picked up his water pistol and thundered out the door. _“I’ll be back.”_

\--

Gabriel considered Hastur again; he was aggressively intimidating, which was good, but also aggressively stupid. “All I really need is for you to go in there and act like you want to rip him apart.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” Hastur grinned…well, it was _like_ a grin, only horrible.

“Remember, he thinks he’s been in the cell for six hours.” It had only been three, but deprived of light, sound, and anything to occupy it, the mind lost all sense of time. “Just play along with whatever I say.”

“I know what I’m doing,” the demon snapped.

Gabriel opened his mouth, and one of the Beelzebub’s flies immediately zipped inside. He coughed, spitting it back out, and it buzzed away, unharmed. “That was rude.”

“You talk too much. Juszt open the door.”

The Archangel reached for the bolt that kept Aziraphale’s cell locked, but spun to point at Hastur again. “Whatever you do, do _not_ threaten any harm against Crowley,” he hissed.

“I threaten whoever I want.”

“One word, one _suggestion_ might be all it takes to set him off, even with the serpent nowhere nearby. Do. Not. Try it.”

The lanternlight pierced the darkness. The pale shape of Aziraphale slumped in his chains, limbs quivering from the strain. His eyes were closed, and he was mumbling to himself, a steady stream that didn’t pause with their approach.

Gabriel settled into the chair. “Saying your prayers, Aziraphale?”

One blue-grey eye cracked open, just a glint in the dark. “Our wedding vows. He _will_ come back for me.”

Hastur snorted, picking up a twisted knife. “He’d’ve turned around by now if he was going to.” It would have been more convincing if he hadn’t immediately smirked at Gabriel.

“I’ve been in worse spots than this. He always comes.”

The voice was still tense, but not as shaky as Gabriel had hoped. The Archangel nodded for Beelzebub to begin pulling at the chains again, moving Aziraphale’s limbs into new, uncomfortable positions.

“You know,” Gabriel started. “If you were _actually_ married, Heaven would have a record of it. We looked. Guess what?”

“It wasn’t under any authority but our own.” Now both eyes opened, looking past Gabriel towards the outline of the door. “We didn’t think it necessary to inform you.”

“We’d still have a record.” Gabriel had never looked at a marriage record in six thousand years, but he could pretend to be an authority on anything. “Unless, of course, one party didn’t really believe in that marriage. Just going through the motions.”

“I know what you’re trying to do.” Aziraphale’s bit his lip as his eyes drifted over to Hastur, and the knife he held. “It won’t work. Crowley _will_ come for me.”

“Yeah,” Hastur gave another maybe-grin. “And if he does –”

Beelzebub grabbed the metal collar around Aziraphale’s neck, jerking his head back as far as ze could. “If he doesz, we let you go. Until then, you’re _oursz.”_

Gabriel would berate Hastur later. _Thoroughly._

“Sorry, Aziraphale. Like I said, not big picture thinkers. They _really_ don’t like that they went through all this trouble and didn’t get to hurt anyone.”

“Well,” Hastur grunted, stepping closer to breathe into the ear opposite Beelzebub. “Not _yet,_ anyway.” He traced the tip of the knife across Aziraphale’s finger.

The angel’s eyes darted from one to the other. “You can’t –”

“Do you know what happensz to an angelic mark when the partiesz are four light-yearsz apart?” Zir tone was as bored as ever, but with the right question, it was still menacing.

“It’s never been tested before,” Gabriel said. “But our models show it fading long before then.”

Hastur dropped his knife and grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist, biting the soft part of his hand.

The angel gasped and pulled away; but thanks to whatever Beelzebub had done with the chains, his wings twisted against each other. Aziraphale gave a cry of pain, lost his balance, limbs jerking like a tangled marionette.

While the demons laughed – well, Hastur laughed, Beelzebub made what you might call a _buzz of delight_ – Gabriel helped Aziraphale find his balance again. “See? It’s already starting,” he said, in soothing, comforting tones. “And it’ll just get worse the farther he goes.”

“That wasn’t…he isn’t…” Now Gabriel could see the confusion, exhaustion and fear he’d come to expect in Aziraphale’s eyes. “What do you _want_ from me?”

Gabriel smiled beatifically, the smile he saved for his most important Messages. “Aziraphale. Just denounce Crowley. He’s leaving you, anyway. Do you want to wait here for hours while your protection fades? Letting the pain grow a little at a time? Giving Hastur a chance to think of something _really_ creative to do with that knife? Denounce him, and we can get it all over with.”

“I…” Aziraphale’s eyes squeezed shut. “I…I know he’s coming. He _is_ coming.”

With a noise of disgust, Gabriel shoved Aziraphale away. The angel gave an undignified _squeak_ as he struggled not to fall again. “If that’s what you want, stand there and suffer. Just remember, every moment I’m down here waiting for you, is a moment I’m feeling less charitable. Let’s go.”

When the door was shut and locked behind them again, leaving Aziraphale alone in the dark with his thoughts, Gabriel allowed himself a laugh. “He’s nearly there.”

“You call that _nearly there?”_ Hastur snarled.

“Agreed. Thisz isz taking too long.”

“I told you, I need one night. Just a little finesse. Not every problem can be beaten into submission.” Gabriel pulled out his phone. Fifteen missed messages from Michael?

“Can if you hit hard enough,” Hastur started, but the Archangel was no longer listening, scrolling through the text messages.

“Can demons make their own Hellfire?”

“Don’t be abszurd.” Beelzebub rolled zir eyes. “It comesz from the firesz of the pitsz. You can’t _make_ it.”

“Yeah,” Hastur added. “It’s in the name. _Hell_ fire. Why?”

\--

As a precaution, Michael had doubled the guard at the escalator, but when the first fiery jar exploded at their feet, they had run screaming in every direction.

She’d retreated to Hell’s main gate, watching back down a corridor now completely consumed by too-hot flames. Strange flames, clinging to surfaces that shouldn’t burn, smoldering with black smoke. Flames that spread and grew in water.

She pointed her sword at the black-clad figure walking unconcerned through the fire. “Out of the way, Michael.” He still held two jars of fire, and the plastic gun strapped to his back.

“I don’t know what these flames are,” she said, calmly as possible, “but I heard back from Gabriel. I know it isn’t Hellfire.”

“Well, close enough. _Greek_ fire. Little something I learned to make in Byzantium.” He threw another jar at her feet.

Michael didn’t flinch, even when the strange, sticky flames exploded across her legs. She forced the heat to dissipate, leaving nothing but a black, tarry substance. “I hope that wasn’t your only trick.”

Cautiously, she took a step towards him, trying to suppress the nearest flames. They were more resistant than normal fire, but once she knew they couldn’t harm her true self, it was easy enough.

Crowley backed away a few steps. She couldn’t see his eyes – the glasses reflected the light and flames – but she knew they’d be darting around again. Looking for a way past.

“Give up, Crowley. Or I’ll find out just how effective this sword is.”

“Let me see him again,” the demon demanded. “Show me Aziraphale and I’ll go.”

She sized him up, considering her chances. He was clever, that was for certain, clever enough to _act_ like he was in control, even when he wasn't. But he almost certainly couldn't fight. His movements were all wrong. If it came down to it, Michael knew she could beat him.

But she wasn't sure she _should._ Guardians who lost a charge could become very unstable. If Aziraphale saw the body of the creature he called _husband,_ it was even odds whether he would go catatonic, or destroy half of Hell in his grief. And while he almost certainly couldn't sense harm to Crowley through his mark, Michael wasn't sure she was willing to take that chance.

In the silence between them, the guards upstairs continued to scream, more in fear than pain. That decided her. Crowley might not be able to cause harm, but the panic and chaos he brought was bad enough. The sooner she got him far away, the better.

“Not here. Go home, send me a picture of yourself nice and comfortable. And I’ll send you a video of the angel. That’s the only deal you’re going to get.”

He clutched at the jar in his hand, but they both knew throwing it would be a meaningless gesture. With a sneer, Crowley spun and walked away. “This _still_ isn’t the end, Michael!”

Once he was gone, she sighed in relief, and prepared to lecture her soldiers on proper discipline in the face of new weapons.

\--

Crowley sat in the bookshop, in Aziraphale’s favorite chair. He’d cleaned up the spilled wine and shattered glass, gathered together the white feathers from the carpet.

It was nearly midnight.

The video played again.

“What’s so special about Alpha Centauri, anyway?” Gabriel asked, voice soft and calm. He sat in that folding chair like it was the Throne of Creation.

“It’s…just a place Crowley likes.” The sight of Aziraphale tore at Crowley's gut, the way the chains pulled his wings back, his neck forward, his arms to the side. They weren’t supposed to be able to hurt him, but they’d still found a way. More than one; the strain in his voice had nothing to do with that on his limbs. “I don’t know why he went, but he’s coming back.”

“When did he first mention it?”

“During…when we thought the world would end.” He shifted his feet, one arm stretching to the limit. “Nn. He wanted to run. I didn’t. He came back.”

“Not this time.”

“He’s going to come. I know he’s going to come back.”

Crowley paused the video, rubbing his eyes. It was a trick he’d taught Aziraphale. _Don’t try to be smart. Don’t be clever. It’s not like the movies. Just pick one thought, any thought, doesn’t matter what. And repeat it, over and over. Don’t think about anything else._ Crowley should have known that he would be the thought Aziraphale picked.

He played the rest of the clip.

"Are you getting tired? You've been standing for a long time."

"M'fine." He shifted backwards, but the chain at his neck forced him to bow.

"Here," Gabriel stood up, moved his chair a little closer. Rested his hands on the back. "You can sit, long as you like. I'll keep the demons away until you're ready. Just...say the words, and you can rest."

Aziraphale's fist clenched. "No. He's...he's coming back. Crowley will come."

But his voice was uncertain now. Drained. Was the mark on his chest looking paler than before?

Crowley needed to reach Aziraphale, _now._

\--

Michael had made good use of her reprieve. She'd sent the worst of the guards back to their duties, and demanded replacements, doubling their number again.

It hadn't been easy. Rumors of what the demon was capable of were spreading faster than his trick fire had. Suddenly, every angel seemed to have some more pressing task to take care of; she'd never seen so many soldiers so dedicated to their paperwork. But the ones who were willing to come were tough, dependable, loyal.

When Crowley sauntered up to the lobby at 1:45 AM, he found the room ringed with thirty fully armed angels on full alert.

She’d hoped he would be intimidated. Instead, he just waved, lounging against the door frame.

“Lovely night for a drive, isn’t it?”

“I don't know what your game is, Crowley, but you won’t get past us again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Just popping in for a friendly greeting.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the glass door, opening it as far as it would go. _“Say hello to my little friends.”_

A swarm of rats – fifty, sixty, seventy, more – poured in through the door. With a speed Michael wouldn't have thought possible, they turned the floor of the lobby into a squirming, wriggling mass of black and brown fur, scrambling over the feet of the guards, making straight for the escalator.

"Stop them!" she ordered.

In a flurry of activity, every one of the thirty angels charged towards the brown swarm, swords and spears swinging uselessly, bodies crashing into each other. Michael reached down to try and grab the rats racing around her feet, but they slipped through her grasp, one biting her finger hard in passing.

Wave after wave disappeared down the escalator.

“Ooh, I can see you’re busy. Have fun, Michael.”

\--

Beelzebub paced outside the cell. It had been over six hours, and so far they’d only succeeded in making the angel tired and uncomfortable.

Gabriel insisted it was going well. That the angel would break any minute. _Just act like the result is inevitable, and soon enough the prisoner will accept it._

The theory was interesting, ze could admit, but it still made for the most _boring_ torture session in six millennia.

Across the plaza - just past the barriers to keep the crowds of Hell away from the angel's cell - a commotion was starting. Even the most spacious corridors were always full of the noise of shoving and grumbling, but this seemed more active than usual. Beelzebub sent a few flies to investigate, buzzing around between the heads of demons.

Ze almost missed the cause: fifteen rats making their way down the hall, darting under feet and around tentacles, biting, scratching. Vermin in the halls of Hell wasn't unheard of, but these were moving with more purpose than rats usually did.

Beelzebub supposed these were the ones Crowley had unleashed, though ze couldn't see anything special about them. According to Michael, there were a lot more, but Hell was already full of rats. Did he think this would impress them? Make any difference in…

No, something _was_ different. The flies couldn't say what, exactly, but it felt wrong.

Walking as fast as ze could, Beelzebub reached the barriers just as the first rat slipped through. Ze snatched up the struggling creature, studying it. Brown fur, four scratchy paws, long bald tail –

There was a scrap of fabric tied to the tail, in a little bow. Tartan. Beelzebub scrambled in zir pocket and pulled out the angel’s tie. It matched exactly.

Nine more rats broke free of the crowd, racing towards the cell with tiny tartan bows dragging behind.

A message.

Beelzebub kicked apart the barrier and shouted at the demons behind. “Grab thosze ratsz! I want every rat in Hell captured, now! _Move!”_

\--

Dagon didn't exactly _enjoy_ paperwork, but she was good at it in a way few demons could manage. Meticulous. Patient, but only with the files themselves, not with fools who interrupted her concentration.

So when the door to the file room burst open, she dropped what she was holding and leapt across the desk, teeth bared.

What idiot with a death wish would even _dare?_ Four nothing demons? Armed with _clubs?_ “This better be good,” she snarled, “or you’re going to _wish_ you'd gone swimming in a sulfur pool.”

“We…” the lead demon took one look at her teeth, and seemed to whither away. “We’re looking for rats…”

“Rats? _Rats?_ Look at this room –” Dagon gestured expansively to the overstuffed filing cabinets, the row on row of shelves filled with books and boxes and scrolls and, in the farthest corner, clay tablets. “Do you think I allow a single rodent in my domain? Do you think _anything_ enters this room without my approval? If you’ve come here to waste my time…”

She paused. Something wasn’t right. A noise she couldn’t account for. _Rustling._

With a snarl and a gesture for the others to follow, she stalked down the row of shelves, filled to bursting with files on every temptation, every misdeed, every demonic report since the dawn of time.

There – the fourth case down, on a shelf six feet high, one of the boxes vibrated with faint movement. Something was shuffling around. _Skittering,_ even. The worst sort of intruder.

She took another cautious step forward, and a little brown head popped over the top of the box, scrap of paper in its mouth. It wiggled its whiskers at them.

“Get it!” shouted one of the demons, and all four raced forward, a mad scramble of clubs and fists. One jumped onto the shelves to climb, then another, and another.

“No! Stop! Don’t –”

_Crack_ _._

Dagon could only watch in horror as the case started to lean, slowly topple, and crash into the next.

And the next.

And the next.

A hundred shelves overbalancing and collapsing like dominoes, like the fall of an empire brought low by a barbarian horde. A hurricane of paper filled the air, and Dagon stood in its eye, ready to scream.

When the final reverberations were stilled, the room silent again except for her own labored breathing, the rat darted across her toes, a tiny bow on its tail.

\--

In every corridor of Hell, demons raced after rodents, scrambling for them, grabbing them up only to drop them once the biting started.

Hastur spotted his prey, twisting between the feet of the demons, getting closer and closer to the prisoner’s cell. He chased after it, throwing aside any too slow to get out of his way. As the rat crossed the last meter, he dove to the ground, snagging the end of its tail.

The skin of the tail ripped free in his hand. But so did the little bit of fabric. The rat escaped, wriggling through a hole in the cell wall smaller than a demon’s hand, but without its message.

With a snarl, Hastur went in search of another.

\--

Aziraphale was determined not to cry. He just didn’t know how much longer he could last.

The shouting outside was picking up again. Gabriel had said the demons were "warming up." Aziraphale didn't know what it meant, but a thousand possibilities crossed through his mind, each worse than the one before.

His whole body ached. He told himself that it was just the chains, the way he’d been hanging in them for hours and days and eternity. It wasn’t a sign that Crowley had abandoned him, it _wasn’t._

He just wanted to sit down.

One of the chains shook. He looked up into the darkness, dreading whatever new torment had been sent to him.

A rat dropped onto his shoulder, tail bleeding, claws scrambling at the heavy collar around his neck.

The first sobs started to escape.

\--

Hours later, Crowley paced outside the lobby of Heaven and Hell, listening to the lead rat report in.

“No, I’m sure you did your best. Did everyone make it out?” Tiny rat fingers ran across its whiskers. “That’s something at least. _Shit.”_ He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to think. It would be dawn soon. They’d had Aziraphale all night.

“Right. No more nice demon. Time for plan B.”

The rat squeaked.

“I don’t know, D? E? It’s not like I’m keeping count.” He eyed the pack of angels in the lobby, larger than ever. “I’m not going to get many more chances. This has to work.”

He knelt down and looked carefully at his agent. “I need you to tell me _exactly_ where they’re holding him, got it?”

\--

Beelzebub couldn't remember a night in the entire history of Hell that had been so _exhausting._

Gabriel held the pile of fabric scraps in both hands. “Is this _all_ of them?”

“Isz it?” Beelzebub demanded of Hastur.

“Well?” Hastur turned to the small group of demons who had declared themselves Hell’s best rat catchers. They all shifted their feet uneasily.

“We think so,” one offered, and the others nodded agreement. “We can’t _find_ any more.”

“You think so,” Hastur started. “And that’s –”

“Enough,” Beelzebub interrupted. Gabriel and his _psychology,_ Hastur and his _noise._ This wasn’t how you ran Hell. This wasn't how you did _anything._ “If I szee another rat, bow or not, I’ll feed one of you to the Hellhoundsz. I don’t care which. And I’ll keep going until there are no more of you left. Undersztand?”

The group of demons glanced at each other. “We’ll…we’ll look again.”

Gabriel looked almost impressed, but right now he could stick his condescension up any and every orifice in his corporation. Beelzebub grabbed the fabric out of his hands. “Bring the lamp and don’t szay a word. I’ll show you how it’sz done.”

\--

Crowley’s phone buzzed.

He looked up from the map of Hell he was sketching on a receipt from Aziraphale’s favorite bakery. It was going to take a lot of careful planning, but his idea was finally starting to take shape. He just hoped his Angel could hold out a little longer.

A text from Michael. “Thanks!” Followed by emojis: a rat, a bow, a smiling angel.

Then the video file loaded.

Beelzebub walked into the cell, in that way every demon in Hell knew meant _find some way to look busy on the other side of the world._ Gabriel trailed behind, an afterthought.

“We caught up to your _huszband,”_ Beelzebub spat. “Gave him our proof. Told him to come negotiate your release. You know what he szaid?”

The hope dawning on Aziraphale’s face, breaking through the misery and fear, looked painful. It certainly ripped Crowley’s heart to shreds.

Beelzebub dropped something at the angel’s feet. The lantern light shifted forward to reveal: dozens of scraps of tartan, a bowtie shredded to ribbons.

“Lying,” Aziraphale said numbly. “Coming back.”

“No!” The Prince of Hell’s flat disdain rarely cracked; the anger that leaked out was something few demons had ever seen, and even fewer had survived. “He’sz not!” Ze picked up a knife, sharp edge glinting in the uneven light. “Crowley isz never!” The blade slashed across Aziraphale’s palm. “Coming!” Across his face. “Back!” Across his stomach – and this time left a bright red line, glaringly visible below the pale trace of his sigil.

It wasn’t a cut. But it was a mark. An injury.

Beelzebub pressed the point of the knife into Aziraphale’s chin, forcing his head back. “Szo you’re going to be our gueszt. _Forever.”_

When ze pulled the knife away, there was a drop of blood on it.

Aizraphale collapsed in his chains, sobbing, heartbroken.

And Beelzebub turned and smiled directly at the camera.

The video ended.

Crowley stared at his blank phone, at the map on the receipt. And threw them into the back of the car.

 _“Fuck_ planning,” he snarled. “Time to improvise.”

\--

Beelzebub bolted the cell door.

“That,” Gabriel said, voice full of some kind of _emotion._ “That was amazing! You just –"

“Shut up,” Beelzebub snapped. Satan, why had ze even _invited_ the Archangel for this? He had done _nothing_ to help, just dragged his feet with his pointless mind games. “I’m getting the torturersz. You can play with the angel until we get back. Then he’sz oursz.”

“Of course. You’re sure I should have Michael send this video to Crowley?”

“I don’t care. What’sz he going to do? Send more rodentsz?”

\--

In a way, Michael was enjoying herself.

Trying to keep out one highly determined demon was _almost_ as much fun as planning a war. Twenty angels scattered around the lobby itself, four more making a line across the escalators. More than that, and they just got in each other’s way. She’d switched off the escalator to Heaven, stationed a dozen more soldiers with arrows all along it. And five scouts up and down the street outside.

Whatever Crowley tried to do next, they were ready for it.

Something like thunder rumbled in the distance, except the sky was perfectly clear. She could see the last stars, giving way to the pre-dawn light.

And some other sound. A strange, discordant clanging, perhaps? But very faint.

“What _is_ that?” she demanded.

Were there words in the clanging?

**_…lords and lady preach…_ **

“I’m not sure, sir,” said the nearest angel dutifully, “but it sounds horrible.”

“Well, naturally,” she agreed.

**_…descend upon your…skies…_ **

“I think,” said another with a frown, “that’s what the reports call _bebop.”_

**_…command your very souls you unbelievers…_ **

Three of Michael’s scouts burst through the doors, waving their arms frantically, faces pale with some unspeakable terror. “Move!” one managed to gasp. “Out of the way!”

"Of _what?"_

**_Bring before me what is mine…_ **

With a squeal of tires, the long black demonic car burst through the glass windows of the lobby, roar of the engine echoing off the walls, mixed with the sound of music screaming about _The Seven Seas of Rhye._ Flaming arrows rained on it from above, and bounced off with no effect.

The car crossed the lobby in seconds, and it was _accelerating._

\--

There was really no way a vintage car should have been able to fit down that escalator, but the Bentley was very good at getting places she didn’t belong.

Crowley knew he’d hit a few angels on the way through the lobby, but they’d survive and he didn’t actually give a damn, a shit or any fucks at all.

Up ahead, someone was trying to close the main gates of Hell. With a grin, Crowley shifted gears, stomped on the throttle and cranked the music up even louder.

**_Storm the master marathon I'll fly through_ _  
By flash and thunder fire I'll survive, I’ll survive, I’ll survive  
Then I'll defy the laws of nature and come out alive  
Then I'll get you…_ **

\--

Gabriel stood beside Aziraphale as he broke down, weeping messily. He could see the last few strands of faith holding that pale mark in place, but they would break very soon.

“I know it hurts, Aziraphale, but you really should have expected it. He’s a demon. He tempted you away from Heaven, and then he betrayed you. It’s what they _do.”_

The bound angel shook his head. “No. My choice. I – I – I wanted to…to live. To love.” The door opened and his head jerked up, but it was just Beelzebub, and Hastur, and five more demons, each nastier than the last. Another thread of faith snapped. “Crowley, _please,”_ he whimpered.

“If you’re going to quesztion him, aszk if he would rather sztart with bladesz or fire.” The glimpse of anger had vanished, buried again under that mask of boredom. It was actually an impressive bit of psychological warfare. They should talk about it sometime, compare notes.

“You did say you wanted choices,” Gabriel reminded Aziraphale.

“I…I want to go home…” That broken tone was music to the Archangel’s ears. “Please…just let me go…I won’t…I’ll stay out of your way...just...”

“Too late for that,” Beelzebub said, as the other demons began selecting their tools.

“Tell you what,” Gabriel put an arm around Aziraphale. “When they’re done, you can come back to Heaven. Would you like that? I mean, we can’t reinstate you, but I’m sure there’s _some_ role we can find for you.”

Once the demons had done their work, he’d have some better ideas for Aziraphale’s punishment and execution. Given the rumors that were circling, he’d have to make it _very_ public this time, and he couldn’t afford any more misjudgments.

Hastur pushed his way past the other demons. “This was my idea. I’ve waited fucking long enough. I get to go first.”

Gabriel stepped aside, giving Aziraphale one last pat on the shoulder.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.

Looping his grubby fingers around the metal collar, Hastur pulled Aziraphale off the ground entirely. “I am going to introduce you to whole new kinds of pain, angel.”

“Juszt leave szome limbsz for the reszt,” Beelzebub reminded him.

**_…comes the black queen…_ **

A commotion had started up across the empty plaza again.

Gabriel glanced out the cell door, half expecting to see more rats. No, just the crowd, and an echo of that strange thunder again. “What _is_ that?”

**_…Fi-fo the black queen, marching single file…_**

Both Hastur and Aziraphale turned towards the door, recognition dawning on their faces.

“No.” Hastur growled. _“No, no, no –”_

“Crowley…” Something in his tear-filled eyes that Gabriel hadn't seen in hours. _Hope._

“NO!” The anger Beelzebub had let slip in the night was nothing compared to that moment. Ze raced out of the cell, arms waving at the crowd. “Szomeone sztop him! Whatever you have to do!”

Gabriel’s legs brought him even further. “Release the Hellhounds! Get the fire, anything – _destroy him!”_

“You will not,” came a quiet voice. Slowly, Gabriel and Beelzebub turned back towards the cell door, still flung wide open. Aziraphale stood straight, deadly calm. “You will not hurt Crowley.”

“Shit.”

**_A voice from behind me reminds me_ **

Aziraphale stepped forward, shaking off his chains as if they were cobwebs, dispelling the gloom with the glow of his wings and the demonic sigil on his chest, bright as daylight.

Hastur didn’t back away fast enough, and Aziraphale threw him clear across the plaza, to crash into the far wall.

**_Spread out your wings, you are an angel_ **

“Shut the door!” Gabriel and Beelzebub threw their weight against it, driving the bolts home.

With one kick from the angel inside, it crumbled like paper.

**_Remember to deliver with the speed of light_ _  
A little bit of love and joy_ **

“You will not. Hurt. My husband.”

Aziraphale held a length of chain in his hands, stygian iron and celestial orichalcum. It glowed as his angelic powers flowed through.

“Your husb – oh, _Crowley.”_ Gabriel held up his hands, backing away. “Is that who that is? I thought it was some...new breed of demon.”

“I have no idea what anyone isz talking about.”

“You’re liars.”

**_Everything you do bears a will and a why and a wherefore_ _  
A little bit of love and joy_ **

“I think _liars_ is taking it too far, Aziraphale, you know –”

“You said he left me. You _lied._ And I _believed you."_ The chain flashed out, ripping their feet out from under them. “But I will not let you hurt him.”

“No one isz going to hurt the traitor,” Beelzebub insisted. “You want to leave, go!”

**_In each and every soul lies a man_ _  
Very soon he'll deceive and discover_ **

“Oh, I’ll leave.” He grabbed them each by the front of the shirt, lifting them clear off the ground. “But not until I’m sure he’s safe from you.”

**_But even 'til the end of his life_ _  
He'll bring a little love_ **

\--

The Bentley wasn’t as bad as the day he’d driven it through a burning M25, but it was still less than pristine. The front end was all bashed up, the sides scratched and scraped, and he’d probably be digging demon teeth out of the grille for weeks.

But he finally broke free of the crowd, and there ahead stood his angel, looking worn and tired, shirt in tatters, but alive. And smiling.

Behind him stood a cell of some kind, the door held on not by hinges, but a web of black and gold chains. There was probably some story there, but Crowley didn’t care.

He spun the Bentley in a wide circle, and came to a stop in front of Aziraphale, pushing open the door. “Did you call for a lift?”

“Crowley…” He climbed into his usual seat and shut the door, placing his hands flat on his knees. “I should very much like to go home now, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley ran his hands along the steering wheel.

What he _wanted_ was to grab his husband into a hug that never ended, to apologize, to swear it was all a mistake, a lie, he’d never leave…

But Crowley recognized that look. Aziraphale was barely holding together, and any display of that kind would utterly destroy him.

So, ignoring the tearstains streaked across Aziraphale’s face, Crowley put the Bentley into gear. “Why don’t you pick out some music for the ride?”

\--

Michael was still standing.

Her soldiers had abandoned their posts. All the demons in Hell seemed to be hiding. She couldn’t reach Gabriel. But she was still standing.

She planted her feet in the hallway, facing the gates of Hell, sword pointed ahead, waiting for that blasted machine to return. She could hear it coming. A noise like thunder. The terrifying, unrelenting baseline of the next song.

She was _not going to move._

\--

The hallway stretched before them. The escalator. Freedom.

And in between, the Archangel Michael.

**_There are plenty of ways that you can hurt a man  
And bring him to the ground_ **

“What do you want to do?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale turned up the music. “I believe the term is ‘floor it,’ dear.”

**_You can beat him, you can cheat him  
You can treat him bad and leave him when he’s down._ **

Crowley shifted into fourth, and took his husband’s hand.

\--

The car came, faster and faster. The sound of it, the heat of it, filled the corridor, almost as loud as Michael's ragged breaths.

**_But I’m ready, yes, I’m ready for you_ **

She could see their faces inside, meet their eyes, hold their gazes. Stare them down.

**_I’m standing on my own two feet_ **

Aziraphale smiled and waved. Crowley did, too, but with only two fingers. The car accelerated, faster, faster.

**_Out of the doorway the bullets rip_ **

And Michael…leapt out of the way at the last second, feeling the breeze of its passing rip at her shirt.

**_Repeating to the sound of the beat…_ **

“Ta very much,” Crowley shouted out the window. “Let’s never do this again.”

“Wanker,” Aziraphale called.

The car, impossibly, climbed up the escalator, and shot across the broken glass of the lobby, escaping into the sunrise.

\--

In the dark of the cell, Gabriel crossed his arms, glaring at all the demons trapped in here with him. That one in the corner looked like he might be trouble. The Archangel hoped he wouldn’t have to make examples out of any of them.

“So. While we’re stuck here. Who’s fault was all this again?”

Beelzebub rolled zir eyes and glared at Hastur, just recovering from his head-first meeting with the wall.

And Hastur bit his hand so hard it leaked foul black blood, then howled: _“Crowley!”_

\--

Afterward

\--

Aziraphale lay in his four-poster bed, wrapped in every blanket Crowley could find. Already the table beside him held three mugs of tea – black, green, and chamomile – and one of hot cocoa. There was a bowl of soup, a tray of chocolates, and another plate with a dozen different pastries.

Crowley frowned, trying to find space to fit the sandwich. He carefully re-stacked Aziraphale’s three favorite books to make a bit more room.

“Thank you, dear, that’s quite enough.”

“No, no it isn’t. There’s no ice cream. You want ice cream? And pie. Let me go get some pie.”

 _“Crowley,”_ Aziraphale called sternly. “There’s only one thing I need right now.”

“What’s that? I’ll get you anything, Angel, whatever you want.”

“I _need_ my husband.” There was the faintest quiver in his voice.

In a flurry of movement, Crowley crawled into the bed, wrapping his limbs around Aziraphale, pulling him into his embrace. “I’m here, Aziraphale, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, I’m never ever going to leave you.”

“I – I do know that. I promise. I – I won’t doubt you again. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no.” Crowley twisted around to cup his face, fingers brushing away the tears as they started to fall. “You don’t apologize. _I’m_ sorry. I should have gotten there sooner. Michael and her bloody guards. I won’t let them take you, ever again.”

“Oh, dear, no, don’t blame yourself. There was nothing you could have done." He wiggled deeper into his cocoon of blankets. "Besides, what are you going to do? Stay with me every minute of every day? I can’t ask that of you.”

“Too bad. I’m asking it of _you.”_ He pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s forehead. “I know we said we wouldn’t rush into living together, but I’m ready. I don’t ever want to be apart from you again, not for a second. Not after this.”

“I…yes, Crowley. I feel the same.” He sighed. “I’d like to hold your hand now, but –”

“No. You’re still in shock. Stay in your blankets.” Crowley rearranged himself one more time, draping himself across Aziraphale like another blanket, looping his arms around his angel's neck, resting his head on his husband’s heart. “I’ve got you now. You just rest. I’m here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you've enjoyed the latest trip through angst, questionable humor, and cuddles that make up my fics. Please comment/kudos if you enjoyed it! :)
> 
> Yes, in this one they are married, but not living together. One headcanon floating around Tumblr is that, after six thousand years of each having his own space, it takes a while to get used to the idea of living together. So they're adjusting one step at a time.
> 
> And Crowley's plan A was absolutely to invade Hell armed with nothing but a Super Soaker. Your choice if it was actually full of Holy Water or if he was just planning to bluff his way through.
> 
> Plan B involved Greek fire, an inflammatory substance from ancient Byzantine that was so secret, the original recipe has been lost to time. It could be delivered in clay "grenades" (as Crowley did here) or even through an early flamethrower, and was used in naval warfare as the flames burned even (or especially) when wet.
> 
> The Queen songs played by the Bentley are "Seven Seas of Rhye," "March of the Black Queen," and "Another One Bites the Dust."
> 
> Thank you all again for reading. Stay safe out there! :)


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